


Much Ado About Furries

by Telcontarian



Series: The Truth or Dare Chronicles [3]
Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Induced Fuckery, Crack, Don't Feed The Scribes After Midnight, Fanfiction, Implied Sexual Content, Jidymus, Jiery, Judo, Minor Jareth/Sarah Williams (Labyrinth), Multi, The Scribes Are Feral, The Scribes Are Thirsty, author is trash, joggle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telcontarian/pseuds/Telcontarian
Summary: In light of the recent tales that have been woven romanticising his sexual activities with Hoggle, Didymus, Ludo and the Fireys, Jareth pays the Scribes of the Goblin Court a visit to regain his reputation and his dignity.
Relationships: Jareth & Sarah Williams, Jareth/Didymus, Jareth/Fiery, Jareth/Hoggle, Jareth/Ludo, Jareth/Sarah Williams
Series: The Truth or Dare Chronicles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974274
Comments: 13
Kudos: 12





	Much Ado About Furries

**Author's Note:**

> After last week's game of Truth or Dare on LFFL that resulted in new Jirey, Joggle and Jidymus fics being posted, I have written this little crack fic for you all.
> 
> I hope that you enjoy Jareth confronting the Scribes.

The fire burned low in the hearth, the firelight of the dying embers casting shadows across the weary monarch’s face, accentuating the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the upward tilt of his eyes. For an hour each night, Jareth sought the sanctuary and safe haven of his chambers in an attempt to make a dent in the ever-growing mountain of paperwork that awaited him before he was called away to deal with yet another fire that the goblins had started. Currently, the little shits were passed out drunk after yet another chaotic day of pin the tail on the chicken, (that had gone _disastrously_ wrong) tossing the younger goblins out of the tower window to see if they could fly (turns out they couldn’t, but they could certainly bounce) and attempting to stage a coup when Jareth refused to officially rename Christmas Chickenmas.

A frantic pounding on the heavy mantle of the wooden doorframe pulled Jareth from his paperwork, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. “You may enter,” he said coldly, his eyes glittering dangerously as he laid down his quill upon one of the many rolls of parchment that littered his desk. 

Jareth glared at the wizened old goblin who pushed open his chamber door with a grunt, mopping the beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead with a handkerchief. “I’m getting too old for this,” he grumbled.

“There had better be a good explanation for your interruption, Weaseltown,” Jareth remarked, a menacing gleam in his eye as he leaned back in his chair to cross his booted feet over the important documents. He summoned a crystal ball, twirling it skilfully between deft fingers and smirking as his Chief Advisor watched his movements with wide eyes while beads of sweat gathered on his brow once more. “You know what happened to the last goblin who interrupted matters of state.”

“It’s Westleton,” muttered the haughty goblin indignantly, levelling the Goblin King with a long-suffering look from over his horn-rimmed glasses. “I would not dream of interrupting His Majesty unless I had good reason. It’s an emergency, Sire. The Scribes –“ he paused, his eyes fearful as he wrung his hands nervously. “The Scribes, they’re writing again.”

Jareth pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation as he thought longingly of Bogging every goblin in the godforsaken City. “They’re Scribes, Weasel, that’s what they do. I would most certainly not class this as an emergency.” He raised the crystal ball, ready to send his Chief Advisor on a long, one-way trip to the leaking Oubliette beneath the Bog when his blood turned to ice in his veins at Westleton’s next words.

“No, Sire,” he replied, shaking his head and Jareth noticed all too late that Westleton’s body was shaking with trepidation and he looked positively terrified. “They are writing most furiously.”

The crystal disappeared with a pop as Jareth removed his feet from the desk and lowered his chair warily. “This is troublesome news indeed.”

“Hence the need for the emergency interruption,” answered Westleton dryly, adjusting his bow tie importantly.

“Dare I ask if my dry spell is finally over? Or have the Scribes found new creative and inventive ways to cockblock me?”

“You’re definitely not getting cockblocked anymore, Majesty.”

Jareth arched his eyebrow and allowed himself to finally hope. “Am I finally free to sow my royal oats?”

“You could say that,” replied Westleton shiftily, not meeting Jareth’s eyes as he shuffled nervously on the spot. The monarch, meanwhile, was too exuberant to pay any attention to his Chief Advisor’s subterfuge, his grin positively feral as he signed the latest decree prohibiting the consumption of goblin ale while operating heavy machinery or chickens with a flourish.

“How bloody marvellous!”

Westleton sighed, no longer interested in delaying the inevitable and postponing his own death sentence any longer. He produced a sheaf of paper out of thin air and Jareth took a moment to admire the elegant penmanship and the author’s meticulous stationery choices. “You’re not going to like this,” the goblin grumbled before ducking behind the elegant armoire lest he be subject to Jareth’s wrath.

The grin soon fell from Jareth’s face as his eyes swept eagerly over the pages, his expression horror stricken as he learned of what new devilry awaited him before summoning a decanter of his strongest whisky with a shaky hand, forgoing a goblet to drink straight from the decanter. “By the gods,” he mumbled weakly, burying his ashen face in his hands and resisting the urge to bleach his eyeballs if it meant that he could permanently rid himself of the terror that he had just subjected himself to. “What new torture is this? Why do I appear to be having sexual relations with every furry creature in this godforsaken Labyrinth?”

“I’m afraid that the Scribes are positively feral, Your Majesty,” said Westleton, peering cautiously around the safety of the large armoire lest his monarch unleash his fury upon his Chief Advisor with a barrage of crystal balls. “They are refusing to listen to reason.”

“The Queen, is she safe? Should I call for extra protection?” 

“I do not believe that will be necessary, Sire. The Scribes do not appear to be interested in the affairs of the Queen lately. I trust that you will intervene in this matter directly?”

Jareth sighed, a frown tugging down the corners of his lips while he summoned a crystal ball with an elegant twist of his hand. “I believe that I must. I have a reputation to uphold, after all,” he muttered darkly before disappearing in a shower of glitter.

“That’s the third time this week,” said Westleton with a shake of his head. “The maids will surely string him up by the testicles.”

* * *

Despite his long reign, this was only the second time in living memory that Jareth had been forced to visit the Chamber of the Scribes to exercise damage control, the first being to dispel the vicious rumours that had circulated around his kingdom that the Goblin King had a Crotch Hamster stuffed down his breeches. That particular incident still rankled. Windows lined every wall of the majestic, cathedral-like room, bathing the chamber in natural light. Hundreds of Scribes occupied five long wooden tables that spanned the length of the room, littered with reams of paper, slabs of chocolate and more unfinished cups of tea and coffee than Jareth had ever seen in his life.

The chamber echoed with the furious tapping of keys and occasional curse word and Jareth was perplexed to see that each Scribe had access to their own computer. Not every Scribe was currently focused on their writing, however; some appeared to be skipping through dozens of humorous images of cats while others napped in the cosy nest of pillows and blankets that occupied the darkest corner of the room.

Jareth raised an eyebrow. “How do they have internet?” he muttered to his Chief Advisor.

Westleton shrugged in response. “Beats me, Sire, magic I suppose.” The goblin beckoned to two human women who were seated at a separate table and appeared to be keeping a close eye on a small, dark haired goblin. “Your Majesty, may I introduce Tyasha and Catie, the current spokespersons of the Scribes of the Goblin Court.”

Jareth inclined his head as the women approached. The smaller of the two ladies looked down at her sweatpants before shrugging and curtseying as best she could given her lack of skirt. Jareth tilted his head curiously at the small crown that adorned her head. “Sup? I’m Catie, also known as Busted Cockblocker.”

The taller brunette wearing a tee shirt with “Jidymus is my OTP” printed across the chest decided to completely forgo proper court etiquette and instead opted to shake Jareth’s hand rather enthusiastically. “I’m Tyasha! Can I just say how excited we are to meet you in person?” 

“Indeed, Sire,” continued Catie. “Your faithful Scribes have spun many tales and sang many ballads about Your Majesty’s sexual prowess and the size of your crown jewels.”

“And cockblocked me throughout,” Jareth pouted. 

Tyasha squealed, covering her mouth with her hand while frantically shaking Catie with the other. “Holy shit he’s read your work.”

“Fuck me, that’s awesome,” Catie replied, reaching a hand down her cleavage to extract a hip flask filled with gin and taking a healthy swig. 

“Quite,” he deadpanned. “I found your tale of the ménage-a-trois between Sarah, Fenrir and I most… illuminating. It was worth waiting 84 years for the update.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the deranged cackle of the small goblin still occupying their table while they scribbled furiously. “Excuse me one second, Your Majesty,” Tyasha sighed before turning her head over her shoulder to yell at their unruly charge. “Oi, Trash, I thought we told you to behave?”

“I’s behavin’,” Trash replied, before unleashing a string of curse words most foul that would make even the hardest of Castle goblins douse themselves in holy water.

“Sorry about that, she’s trying to understand temperature again,” apologised Catie. “You were saying, Sire?”

“Ah, yes. Unfortunately, it has come to the Crown’s attention that there have been tales written of a somewhat sensitive nature.”

Tyasha frowned. “With all due respect, your Majesty, the Scribes have written many stories of a somewhat sensitive nature.”

Jareth hesitated. “Quite frankly, I have no wish to relive the horrors that befell me in the Scribes’ latest tale. I believe that I will require intensive therapy and the strongest bleach that money can buy to rid myself of the memory of what I have just read.”

“Oh, you mean our newfound proclivity for furry fetishism? said Tyasha brightly. “I do believe that was some of our best work.”

“Which tale did you read, Sire?” asked Catie eagerly, a manic glint in her eye. “I’m partial to Judo or Joggle myself, but Tyasha is responsible for the latest Jidymus tale that may have caught His Majesty’s eye.”

“JIDYMUS 4EVA!” cheered Tyasha.

“And we can’t forget about the latest contender, Jiery!” called one of the Scribes and Jareth was suddenly aware that almost every person in the room was focused intently on their conversation, the same manic gleam in their eyes. The Goblin King was almost certain that one of the Scribes was even drooling.

“Jiery? Jidymus?” Jareth summoned a crystal behind his back, ready to make a quick escape if absolutely necessary.

“Do try to keep up, Sire,” scolded Catie with a frown. Jareth wondered just how much gin she had already consumed today. “These are your official ship names.”

“Ship names?”

“For when we record your sexual encounters with Hoggle, Ludo, Didymus or the Fireys, silly,” said Tyasha, rolling her eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Jareth looked nauseated. “By the gods.” Catie offered the Goblin King her hip flask which he gratefully accepted and drained the contents. “I do not wish to hear those words ever again. Whatever did I do to deserve this torture?”

Catie patted Jareth’s arm sympathetically. “Don’t worry, Sire. No one can resist Hoggle’s sweet, sweet warty pickle.”

“Or Didymus’ furry arsehole,” said Tyasha.

“Fireys have detachable dicks!” called the same Scribe from earlier.

“God, I wish His Majesty’s dick was detachable,” lamented another.

Trash cackled in agreement and Jareth shifted nervously, feeling mildly violated as the little goblin’s eyes landed on him, a truly evil smile spreading across her face before dropping their gaze to his crotch.

“EUREKA!” she shouted, while the Scribes applauded politely and cheered enthusiastically.

“Should I be worried?” Jareth asked mildly as Trash began to scribble once more.

“Terrified, Majesty,” admitted Catie. “She enjoys creating utter carnage.”

Tyasha glanced over at their charge thoughtfully. “It seems that Trash has finally found inspiration for the smut scene that she was working on.”

“Furry anal fisting,” confirmed the goblin with a diabolical laugh.

“We can only apologise, Sire, she is literal Trash,” said Catie with a sigh while Tyasha patted her shoulder in sympathy and handed over the hip flask of emergency back-up gin. “Many thanks.”

“As I was saying, ladies –“

Tyasha’s eyes shone with excitement as she clapped her hands together. “Oh, yes! Our latest creation! We have plans, Your Majesty, so many plans!”

Jareth buried his face in his hands. “I’m not sure I’m intoxicated enough for this conversation,” he mumbled, spreading his fingers to cast a longing look at the emergency back-up gin.

“You are most certainly not,” agreed Catie, linking her arm through Jareth’s while motioning for Tyasha to take his other arm. “Come along, Sire! The Gobbler’s Knob serves the most excellent mead. One sip and you will forget all of your worries.”

“I should bloody well hope so,” he groaned. “Although I doubt that even Goblin Ale will enable me to forget the events of today.”

Jareth did not protest as he was frog marched out of his own Castle and through the Goblin City, gaining many a curious look at the spectacle that was the Goblin King being accosted by two members of the Goblin Court. Disentangling himself long enough to push open the heavy tavern door, Jareth blinked owlishly as his eyes struggled to adapt to the gloomy interior before being led into the darkest corner of the tavern where three frothy mugs of ale magically appeared before the thirsty patrons.

As the evening shadows began to lengthen and an endless supply of mead was placed before him, Jareth found himself deep in his cups, almost failing to notice the newcomer who cast himself down beside the trio with a weary sigh. He also failed to notice the faint rustle as Catie and Tyasha surreptitiously slipped fresh parchment and quills onto the scrubbed wooden table before them and gazed expectantly at the interloper.

Jareth squinted at the figure, willing the room to stop spinning long enough to identify the robed figure that sat before him, his ancient gaze fixed intently on the monarch. “Wiseman,” he slurred at long last. What the devil are you doing here?”

The Wiseman placed a hand on the Goblin King’s knee as Catie and Tyasha began scribbling furiously.

“I’ve come for you.”


End file.
